


Of Galas and Flirting

by elephantfootprints



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur hopes that there's a need for the flirting and banter tags, Banter, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Professor Eames, Tumblr Fic, University, Wealthy Arthur, confused arthur, or at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 23:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10260911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/pseuds/elephantfootprints
Summary: Response to a tumblr ask.Anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Arthur is a billionaire socialite and tired with all that brings. Eames is a University prof who lives the quiet life. They meet at a gala event in support of a University driven fund drive.I was very excited to receive this, but then it sat in my inbox for a long time because I don’t know anything about socialites and how universities raise money. Then I realised, I don’t need to know that, I can just make things up and be terribly vague. Anyway, I was under orders from work tonight to have the night off and do something fun and relaxing, and now this story exists. Enjoy!





	

“Oh hello darling, I didn’t see you come in.” Eames’s smile is light and easy and all the things Arthur never manages to be. His eyes linger over Arthur’s jacket, the gap at his open-necked shirt. Everything about him is perfectly warm and fond. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely pleased to see Arthur. If he’s bored and finds Arthur an amusement.

If he’s simply under orders to charm the university’s backers.

“Did you know I was gay when we first met?” Arthur blurts out without thinking. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The vol-au-vent is too hot and too large to comfortably fit in Arthur’s mouth, but he can’t risk anything else coming out without permission, so in it goes.

Eames looks genuinely startled by the comment, a saving grace. They’ve met over and over and Arthur’s never known with absolute certainty what was behind anything Eames said or did. Fathomless green eyes, or whatever shit Eames would say. Not to Arthur, but he teaches English literature. Presumably he spends his days quoting Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde.

His nights whispering sonnets. Groaning out metaphors. Whimpering promises.

The point is he has hard to read eyes, even for Arthur.

“Well, strictly speaking, I didn’t know until just now,” Eames says. He gives a genial laugh that does a terrible job of hiding nerves. Six months of flirtatious banter and Arthur’s never heard Eames laugh like this. Fond chuckles, mischievous snickers, and once, just once, a deep unselfconscious belly-rumble.

“Oh,” Arthur says.

Has he misread six months of interactions? Did he imagine the flirtatious elements to Eames’s comments? Were they even bantering? Maybe Eames has spent six months trying to smoothly segue out of their conversations without offending Arthur or making him rethink his donations. Arthur can feel a flush start to heat his cheeks and all he can think is fuck this. That’s not what he’s here for.

“Excuse me,” Arthur says tightly, and stalks off to goad one of the physics teachers into an argument. He doesn’t know what to make of it when Eames tries to catch his eye as he’s disputing the absurdly optimistic projections from the ecology department. This might have to be his last night at a university gala.

 

Arthur had never been a child prodigy. He was frequently top of his class at school, but that said a lot more about Arthur’s classmates than it did Arthur, a fact he knew very well. An ordinary childhood, poor and averagely unhappy, Arthur learned quickly the only way to see results in life was a combination of hard work and a flexible understanding of rules.

By twenty-six years old he was already worth more than his entire childhood neighbourhood put together. Twenty-nine and he could have bought the whole city, flattened it, and built some casinos. Maybe a water park. He might have, too, if it wouldn’t have upset his mother. Vaguely make up for a deprived childhood. Appeal to his overwhelmed teenage self, still fantasising that one day the world might not rely on his shoulder’s for a safe place to rest.

The problem was when he hit thirty-three, more money than he could ever spend, and a sickening awareness he had beaten his last challenge, gotten too good at his game. He was bored, and lonely, and quite frankly he was tired of being smarter than stupid people.

 

“Well hello, darling, what brings you here?” From the first, Eames was a bit of a mystery. A charming, flirty, inscrutable diversion. He was so cliched, an actually British English professor in elbow patches, cup of tea in hand and just camp enough Arthur couldn’t work out if he was actually gay or if he was just eccentric. Arthur should have hated him.

“I gather the same reason as you,” Arthur had replied, forcing himself to stay cool, willing his dimples down. “A chance to spill tea and wine over regrettable sartorial choices."

“Darling,” Eames had said, and he’d looked, well he’d looked chuffed. Not once in thirty-three years had Arthur thought he would ever have cause to use such a ridiculous word, but Eames’s face right then and there demanded it. “You must stay and talk to me all night. The cretins in the industrial sciences do not deserve the privilege of talking to you.”

“This gala is for them,” Arthur pointed out.

Eames waved a hand dismissively, spilling a small amount of tea of the cuff of his shirt. His khaki-toned paisley shirt. “They can have your money,” Eames said. “Build their important bridges and save the world, but they cannot have a moment of your time. Not one iota of your cruelty, that is all mine to enjoy.”

Arthur stayed until the hors d'oeuvres were taken away and then let himself be ushered away to listen to a keynote speaker. At the ballet for the repairs on the performing arts centre, Arthur arranged for seats near the staff block. They argued about dance as a medium for storytelling though the intermission. By the annual conservation gala, he didn't even bother with the pretence of greeting the organisers, just went straight for Eames and skipped 'hello' in favour of 'do they really think that ivy is native?'

This wasn’t what Arthur had in mind, but it was so much better than dry arguments and an inevitable descent into either fallacies or tears. This was swordplay, matching wits and flexing minds. Some days it was almost a dance, knowing when to push and when to tease, leading each other through new moves and across well worn steps. It was fun.

Maybe Eames was just giving Arthur his attention because Arthur was giving the university thousands of dollars. Or maybe it was just that Arthur was more interesting than Mrs Cripps and her nineteen polo horses or James Georgeson and his fleet of race cars and dodgy gallbladder. They weren’t friends, exactly, and they might flirt but they weren’t anything along those lines either. It was school all over again, Arthur being the best of a rather grim bunch, and Arthur deciding it wasn’t worth caring about. What they had was good.

And then Arthur, unable to leave anything well enough alone, had decided to find out whether the university had sicced Eames on him because he was gay and Eames was hot. Or if it was just that Eames was around his age and could talk about baseball for a remarkably long time.

 

“Hello.” Eames’s voice sounds exactly the same, warm and fond and unmistakably British, but without the signature ‘darling’, Arthur almost doesn’t recognise it.

“Hello,” Arthur says, pulling himself together quickly enough to sound calm and cool without coming across frosty or dismissive. He’s so proud of himself he nearly says it again. But he’s standing in Starbucks, waiting for an espresso, and he’s always found indignities are tenfold worse in mundane public places.

“You weren’t at the Young Artists’ gallery opening,” Eames says. His hands are tucked casually in his pockets, but he’s making eye contact with Arthur easily enough. Body language is usually something Arthur can read fairly easily, a learned gift rather than a natural one, but useful nonetheless. Not with Eames, of course. He can draw Eames into an argument on nearly any subject, and know the routes and techniques Eames favours. The steps he will take, when he will lead and when he will follow in their well-honed dance. That’s where his knowledge of Eames ends. Everything else is speculation, the kind that inevitably leaves a blurred line between clinical observation and wishful thinking.

“No,” Arthur confirms. Eames nods, thoughtfully. What he could possibly be pondering about Arthur’s response is a mystery, but there he stands. Buttoned up in a tweed coat, like he’s afraid someone might not realise he is English. Looking like Hercule Poirot has just explained everyone’s motives and then been called away before revealing the murder.

“Did I…” Eames pauses, but not for emphasis or as though the rest of his thought is so obvious it’s not worth vocalising. He actually hesitates. Licks his lips (a move Arthur is relieved he never made in their debates). “I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable or unwelcome.”

“No,” Arthur says again. It’s not Eames’s fault that Arthur is an idiot. That Arthur had started to read too much into their conversations

“Good,” Eames says, nodding, this time in satisfaction. It makes Arthur wonder why he wasted so many words in their arguments. Eames is taking him far more seriously monosyllabic than he ever had at Arthur’s most verbose. “We have a very strict policy of nondiscrimination.”

This time Arthur nods. He doesn’t know what to say. ‘Okay’ or maybe ‘Don’t worry, I will still give your university my money’. He refrains from saying, ‘If I did come back, would you still flirt with me?’ because that’s fairly pathetic. The pause after Eames’s words is shifting into an awkward silence, so Arthur settles for, “Good.”

“Of course, I think the university would also frown on its professors lusting after one of our biggest donors,” Eames says.

Eames is hardly being subtle here, so Arthur works out what he means immediately, but he’s still grateful Eames pauses, gives him a moment to process. Not that it really helps. A few weeks ago, Arthur would have found this information vaguely interesting, a bit of evidence against the, ‘Eames is only talking to me because I write big cheques’ column. But Eames hadn’t known he was gay, so now Arthur has no clue what the hell any of it meant.

“Especially because I’m thinking of asking him to stop giving them money because I want to ask him out and I think the donations would complicate things,” Eames continues, when it becomes obvious Arthur isn’t going to contribute.

“Oh,” Arthur says. He has a horrible feeling his dimples have come out without permission.

“Ah, darling, how I have missed your way with words,” Eames says, smiling. His hands are still in his pockets, though, and there’s a wistful turn to his lips. There’s nothing for it but for Arthur to kiss it away.

“That just cost the university my seat at the winter gala,” Arthur says, smirking at Eames.

“Hmmm,” Eames says, threading Arthur’s scarf through his hands. “I think the history department is gunning for another research trip.”

Arthur gives Eames his most evil grin. “Let them try,” he says, and pulls Eames back in for another kiss.


End file.
